Today I read:
The truth is she who was milk-white is redrawn by the man she lives with. Newfangled machinery prickles glyphs nightly into her skin. She is quilled, traced, re-lined. He hovers over the device with reverence. The machine touches her with mechanical science. Pictures unfurl, snug as a ribbon tied around her throat. The machine’s dreams of the jungle are writ into her skin; sometimes, the lion roars. The contortions of her body bares the hidden sides of her limbs. The soft white underside of her arm. The deep of her thighs. The hollow at the back of her knees, the crook of her elbows, the inside of her eyelids. Sometimes, the hummingbird pierces fruit with its bill while the horse gallops, gallops, gallops.